


To a flame, a moth

by AnnaWritesFiction



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Romance, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaWritesFiction/pseuds/AnnaWritesFiction
Summary: He was so caught up in the whiplash he never even bothered to entertain the possibility of Crowley hearing flashes of his thoughts.Crowley, who was just thinking about Aziraphale’s lips, as if they haven’t been enemies, adversaries, allies, tentative friends, best friends, for six thousand years.Crowley, attractive, lithe Crowley, Crowley the original tempter, Crowley who saunters with his hands tucked inside the pockets of impossibly tight jeans, Crowley with his head perennially aflame, with the serrated whiteness of his smile and those eyes and with a heart big enough to encircle the whole damned world.Crowley, who stands very much behind him, and has, probably, heard some of that, too.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	To a flame, a moth

##  _Yet everything that touches us, me and you,  
takes us together like a violin’s bow,  
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.  
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?  
And what musician holds us in his hand?_

## ~Rainer Maria Rilke, _Love-Song_

##  _for kostas_

## -To a flame, a moth-

There is always a boundary to the daydreams. A line that, once crossed, renders going back impossible. The mental images, a montage of wishful thinking more than anything, range from sensual to cautiously erotic, without ever treading into obscene territory.

He conjures them up and perfects them within the safe confines of his head, the same sequence over and over, like a mantra, or -the blasphemy of it! - a _prayer_. And perhaps it is the centuries of wanting as opposed to having, or the sheer richness of his imagination, because The List keeps expanding, and with every new addition come the details, the embellishments. Whenever the fallout from an argument forces them apart, the shimmer of a single bead of sweat, tumbling sideways across a large forehead, saves his life. Whenever the knowledge that there is no imminent absolution for the likes of him becomes too much to bear, the glint of a pinky ring against a backdrop of silk provides a soothing distraction.

The products of these ideations are dragged randomly from the recedes of his subconscious, with eyes shut or fixed upon a wall, gasped behind shower curtains and between quickening breaths, whispered and lost in the sibilant music of running water, rasped into pillows. Sometimes those images flood his vision unbidden, prompted by so much as the owner of a bleach-blond head stepping out into the pale London sun. Sometimes the occasion is so unfortunate that his mortal vessel is getting the good old fight-or-flight instincts and leans towards the nearest exit like a flower to the sun.

Take now, for example.

The culprit is, of course, oblivious. He is seated a few tantalising inches out of reach, prim and proper, his elbows impeccably placed before the table, his back straight as a walking stick. A ludicrously broad range of emotion lights his face up, rippling over lips and eyebrows, to the rhythm of gesturing hands. Whenever he is trying to get a complex point across, his eyelashes, nearly white and all the more mesmerising for it, hover dangerously close to the skin underneath, and Crowley wishes he could just shrink into a single molecule and bask in the shade they cast.

What is Aziraphale talking about? The last time Crowley checked, it was something about pre-raphaelite painters, and how Millais’ _Ophelia_ was the only _Ophelia_ worthy of the character. (“Which reminds me, my dear boy. What a lovely evening that was _, Hamlet_ I mean. The entire Royal Theater resounding with the strains of people quietly sobbing, the glorious standing ovation, all thanks to your little demonic miracle. Ah, what a lovely evening indeed. If I recall correctly we went for dinner afterwards, and we had _that absolutely scrumptious…_ ”) Sometime between then and now Crowley stopped listening, enraptured by a smidge of chocolate cake stuck at the corner of the angel’s mouth.

It is shamelessly distracting, the way it moves in tandem with Aziraphale’s lips, a reminder of the charged air between them, of a gap that conveniently stays small enough for Crowley to entertain the idea that, one day, it might close. There is beauty in the symmetry of their corporeal forms facing each other, darkness and light, ethereal and occult, opposites failing at innovation and perpetuating the adage. How easy it would be, to tear at all those invisible barriers, cover a hand with another, cup a face, dig fingers into hair. To bend over, reach out, inhale-

“Crowley, my dear, have you listened to _a word_ I’ve said?” He is pouting now, the dessert fork frozen midway to its destination, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. Crowley is overcome by an urge to bolt, to run away from Aziraphale, away from the Ritz, away from the piano music and the warm glow of the chandelier. He could shrug it off, make a snide remark, initiate their usual banter, but the world didn’t end, and they helped save the day, and-for the first time in six thousand years-they walk the earth free from Heaven and Hell, and everything feels different.

“Crowley, is something the matter?”-a tinge of concern. Why is the silence so awkward? They’ve known –and occasionally thwarted-each other since the literal Garden of Eden; long enough for the tension between them to abate, for their friendship ( _relationship_? Treading dangerous waters, there) to mature and settle into a rhythm comfortable for both; long enough to map each other’s behavior down to the minutiae; long enough for their silences to be orchestrated, to signify familiarity rather than an absence of things to say.

_And yet!_

“I am sorry, angel”, and he is. “I s’pose I am just tired, is all. We _sss_ stoped the Armageddon, _sss_ wapped bodies, faced literal Heaven and Hell, _‘sss_ a lot to have done within the span of twenty-four hours.”

“Quite a lot.”

“And there’s the whole employment thing.”

“Employment?”

“Heaven, Hell, angel, demon, _whatever_. I mean, can I even call myself that anymore, a demon? Not that I am any less Fallen, of course, but, given we just bade adieu to both our respective head offices”-

“Oh, but you don’t know that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, they might have been… _impressed_ by our little act, dear, but they could still try to make an example out of us, should we let our guard down, which we won’t. At least I won’t. And I very much advise you do the same, at least for the first few decades.”

“So what, you mean nothing’s changed, although we are no longer on their official payroll? I was hoping we could do something different. I don’t know. Work as free agents, perhaps? And then there’s the whole Arrangement thing.”

“The Arrangement thing.” Aziraphale’s facial expression is half-hidden by the napkin. There goes the smidge of chocolate. Crowley shoots a glare in its general direction.

“Well, yes, Aziraphale, will you please sssstop repeating what I ssssay? The point is- well, the point is. We don’t really need to do-this.” He gestured at the space between them. “I know I said we were on our side, and we are, but up until recently we used to see each other once every few decades-which was completely fine by me- so perhaps, now that we are out of the whole temptation/ miracle business, you’d prefer”-

“Crowley.” It isn’t a name; not this time. The napkin falls unceremoniously from his plump fingers, and Aziraphale does a weird thing with his right hand, an uncertain flourish that lands somewhere between drumming nails on the table and reaching for- _something_. Crowley gawks at it, this human contraption of meat and bone, manicured and perfect, pale blue veins branching out under the skin. It looks like a pending question mark, although it remains unclear what the question itself was.

“Yes, angel?”

“It’s okay, dear. I don’t have anyone else, either.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up before he changes the subject, as if what he just said was normal. “Now, shall we take this back to mine?”

Crowley chokes. Then, as if to prove a point, his mind begins to run a full recap of _The List_.

* * *

It is a good thing that Aziraphale, whose grasp on modern linguistics falls short of three eons of slang, give or take, is oblivious to what the phrase “ _let’s take this back to mine_ ” alludes to. Not only because, as a sort-of-but-not-really British man, he would be absolutely mortified otherwise, but also because Crowley’s demeanor is unnerving in and of itself.

 _The problem_ , he thinks as he steps aside to let the demon inside the bookshop _, is that we are pretending that nothing has changed, whereas everything has._ Aziraphale stands in the threshold for a while, taking his counterpart in, observing the sway of hips as Crowley saunters towards the room in the back. He is tall and thin, however the term “willowy” feels inadequate; despite being the literal Serpent of Eden, there is an almost birdlike quality to the way his head rests upon that long neck, slender limbs moving as though Crowley got them before walking was invented.

The word “endearing” springs to mind. For the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale is allowed to think it.

“You know what. The Roman Empire, great and all. But Augustus _. Augustus_.”

The voice diminishes in volume as the demon disappears from view. They are already quite drunk, and alcohol tends to make Crowley ramble a lot about dead people. Tonight, it seems, he’s chosen to channel his repressed anger into _Octavian_ , of all monarchs.

“What about him?”

“Self important little _prick.”_ The words are barely audible, but instead of following Crowley to the back, Aziraphale lingers between the bookcases, an arm stretched out, fingers trailing old bindings and worn pages. In this new, reset reality, nothing feels quite solid. A few hours ago, those invaluable editions were ashes- the Oscar Wildes and the Shakespeares and even the godforsaken Jeffrey Archers together in death.

(“It burned down, remember?” Crowley had said. And: “You can stay at my place, if you like.”)

“Oh? Upstairs always thought highly of-of- I mean. He _did_ bring stability to the old place.”

“By convincing them _they no longer needed a democracy_!”

“Persuasive young man, he was.”

“And that stunt he pulled against Mark Anthony? What a wanker!” They are shouting at each other now, in an attempt to communicate despite the wall and the bookshelves separating them. Realizing this, Aziraphale exits the trance, and joins Crowley.

“Funny thing, I always thought that was one of yours,” he says, receding into the welcoming hollows where the armchair has taken the shape of his form. Opposite him, Crowley is sprawled all over the sofa, an assemblage of body parts scattered here and there, yellow eyes in plain view. “I mean. Stolen will? Definitely something your lot would appreciate.”

“Well, I did get a commendation for that ridiculous incident, though I was nowhere near either Augustus or Anthony that day.”

“Now that you mention, neither was I. Which brings me to the inevitable question. _Where_ was I?”

“With me, probably. I remember a lot of drinking. _Quite extraordinary amounts of wine_. You know, I had many quibbles with the Romans. Drama queens, the lot of them. Not quite right in the head, what with the macabre clocks and all that. But the _grapes._ ”

“Scrumptious.” _Speaking of_ , he absentmindedly fumbles in the air, and out of the liminal space between the _Here_ and the _Somewhere Else_ , Aziraphale grabs a nondescript bottle of red wine. On the table between them, a couple of glasses that might or might not have been there before eagerly receive the content that, to someone with a trained palate, would taste suspiciously similar to a _Romanee-Conti Grand Cru_ (1945 harvest).

Crowley slouches forward and gives his glass a generous sniff before taking a sip. Seeing as his palate is as trained as trained can be, a smile spreads from his mouth to his serpentine eyes.

“Ah yessss, _Côte de Nuits.” The hiss is one of approval. He knows where Aziraphale stands on the age-old Bordeaux versus Burgundy debate, so there is a hint of gratitude mixed in there, as well. And then: “_ They don’t make them like they used to, you know. Grapes. Nowhere near as…”

“Grapey?”

“Yes! And there’s the other thing-

“What other thing?”

“Wait. I forgot. We were talking about…?”

“Mark Antony.”

“Yes. And-

“Augustus.”

“What a prick!”

“My dear, you do realize there would have been no Roman Empire without him? No Byzantium? That’s half of your commendations and half of mine, Crowley. Byzantium. And the architecture! The _churches!_ ”

“The churches? Seriously? Have we met?”

“Well, maybe not the churches, for your lot. The… the _fratricides_ , perhaps?”

“You’re missing the point! The point is- the point- is. Nothing good ever came out of the whole _‘emperor, son of a god’_ business. It gets to a monarch’s head, let me tell you, and I’ve been around a lot, and I mean a _lot_ , of those. Just look at that absolute nutcase, Henry the eighth”-

“But he gave us _Elizabeth_! Don’t you see, dear, it’s all part of a plan. You can’t have something good without a few sacrifices along the way. That’s causality for you.”

“I am pretty sure that’s not what _causality_ means, angel.” Crowley sounds slightly irritated, and Aziraphale mentally reprimands himself for having forgotten the demon was once a friend to Sir Thomas More, whom he had tempted into writing _Utopia_.

“Oh? Like you insisted gorillas don’t build nests?” Aziraphale is painfully aware of how buttoned-up he comes across as, and frankly, arguing over deceased historical figures is the exact opposite of celebratory. But something about them both ticks counter-clockwise tonight. Something unspoken and thick enough to cut into slices and serve on a platter.

“Never said I can’t be wrong.” Crowley murmurs. “And _anyway_ , ‘ _a few sacrifices’_? That doesn’t sound very angelic, does it? I didn’t think your side were so _Mach- Mach-_

“You mean _Mach- machiav-_

“ _The ends justify the means_ , that sort of thing.”

“I figured as much.”

“You have a penchant for idolising people with some very dubious morals. Even by my own standards.” Crowley gives the empty glass a sour look, then promptly refills it.

_I wonder if I could taste the grapes on his lips afterwards. I wonder whether a kiss would smell of Chardonnay, of Pinot, of blessed Sauvignon, depending on the bottle, Aziraphale thinks. And, oh, goodness, where did those thoughts come from?_

“You fail to look at the bigger picture, Crowley,” he says, fidgeting.” And besides, _your standards_? Now that both Upstairs and Downstairs are, hopefully, no longer breathing down our necks, allow me the pleasure of saying this out loud: you’ve _never_ been particularly demonic, my dear.” Creases appear between Crowley’s eyebrows, but Aziraphale continues, undeterred. “You like to _sport all those dramatic outfits_ and hide your eyes behind shades and throw tantrums at the mere sound of the word ‘nice’, but your heart is _soft_. Moreso than mine, if I may add.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley’s pitch rises for at least an octave.

“ _Soft.”_ Aziraphale hopes he isn’t driving a wedge between them by telling what he perceives to be the truth about his best and only friend. He’s always been ridiculously proud of Crowley for being, well, _Crowley_ , in spite of his unholy nature.

“How very dare you, angel. I am not soft, I am _anything but_. It’s all a matter of perspective. And common logic. And anyway, if Heaven likes Augustus and I don’t, that automatically makes it rather demonic of me, does it not?”

“Not really. I think you’ve always had a soft spot for Anthony.” Aziraphale refills his own glass, unsure of both the stakes and the odds. Like precipitate settling at the bottom of a beaker, the repercussions of having gone rogue occur to him one by one. For six millennia, his mind has been a fortress, but now thoughts are slipping through the crevices. There are about a dozen new freedoms he has no idea how to process. He feels something monumental looming overhead, something as fast-moving and irreversible as a piano freefalling down the length of a high-rise.

“I. Huh. _Nonssssense_.” Crowley says, fluently.

“You _chose_ the name Anthony,” Aziraphale presses on.

“A perfectly good name, common to many male specimens across the ages.”

“Perhaps.”

“I mean, Anthony, what an idiot. Can you imagine, Alexandria? Capital of the Roman Empire? Preposterous. Where would we be now?”

“Well, perhaps somewhere different. Perhaps not. Anyway, my dear, I know you. And after six thousand years of knowing you I am confident in my initial assessment. You have a soft spot for Anthony.”

Silence falls between them, taut and charged. Crowley is clutching at whatever it is that he’s wearing around his neck, worrying at the fabric with long, delicate fingers. Like Schrodinger’s cat, their dynamic is both unchanged and swept away by the conversational equivalent of an avalanche. Aziraphale’s gears spin. _How do I know this? I mean, I know I knew this, but how, and why is it that I am, suddenly, so acutely aware? And why do I feel like it matters?_

“Well, okay. If you really want to know, I do.” Crowley gives in.

“Imagine that.” Aziraphale is smiling. In the wan lamp-light, his companion looks oddly vulnerable, causing something within him to overflow _. I wish I could kiss the smug off that face_ , he thinks, and then: _Wait. That’s wrong_.

“Oh, don’t be so bloody smug about it. It’s not like I fail to see your point, cause I do. Issss just. I also underssstand him. Out of the two, he was the human one. Everything that led to his downfall was not a product of- of. Ambition. No. It wasss. It. Was.”

“Cleopatra,” Aziraphale breathes, remembering the metaphorical piano and bracing for impact. _I know you so well, dear_ , he thinks, and: _Am I that obvious_? And: Oh _, Goodness, that definitely wasn’t me_.

“Yes,” Crowley slaps his knee, making a noncommittal sound before continuing. He seems unaware of Aziraphale’s conundrum and immersed in thoughts of his own. “You sssssee, they tried to elope together. They probably knew it would go down the way it did, and yet. They did it anyway.”

“And died.”

“And died. But you misssssed one important detail.”

If he could sink further into the cushions, Aziraphale would gladly do so. He’s itching where pearly-white wings would be, weren’t they tucked away. They do that when his corporation is nervous, and right now he is so nervous his stomach is regretting a hundred lifetimes’ worth of meals _. This is a metaphor_ , he thinks, and: _oh, Satan, he is freaking out._

Aziraphale freaks out. “Hm?” he says. _Succinct._

“Persssspective, angel. Already sssaid it- perssspective.”

“I fail to see your point _.” I hear your point. I hear your thoughts. Good lord, the thing with the lips and the- the-He can’t possibly look at me and think- oh, my, I refused to elope with him just a few hours ago, and this is the point where he accusingly tells me that Anthony and Cleopatra at least got to-_

“They died, angel, but firssssst they got to live.”

* * *

Angels- and, by extension, demons- have a very particular perception of time. Particular meaning they barely perceive its passage at all.

Imagine being an occult, immortal entity roaming the mortal plane. You wear your human body like a comforting old sweater-it is not, strictly speaking, yours, but it represents your true self in ways, say, a shirt, never could. Conveniently, this body doesn’t age, nor does it tether itself to biological inconveniences, like death-by-starvation-unless-you-eat. You don’t change, yet the entirety of the world does, and eras come and go like those videos of a single location projected in fast-forward. Flowers unfurl, shrivel up, and die within nanoseconds. Blink and you might miss somebody’s lifetime.

When Crowley becomes aware of the fact that he’s stopped breathing, innumerable minutes have passed, leaving his circulatory system rather confused and his limbs all tingly. Aziraphale could very well be part of the furniture by this point, frozen in place and staring with an expression that, within a few moments, has spanned the entire spectrum from surprise to horror.

Crowley resists the urge to miracle up a cigarette, if anything to keep his fingers from shaking. So, maybe this was a bad idea. Of course it was. Aziraphale has been through a lot during these past few days- he even lost his corporeal form for a short while, for Somebody’s sake- and yet here Crowley is, not quite content in spite of their newfound freedom to be friends and ready to send everything to hell with a basket for a fleeting chance at Something More.

The hint was subtle enough, still. He could have very well been talking about Cleopatra and Anthony, full stop, no hidden agenda, no double entendres. Why does Aziraphale look so despondent? His angel, his picture-perfect, bright-eyed angel, sturdy yet cherubic -a creature straight out of Michelangelo’s dreams, covered in a faint sheen of melancholy. It looks wrong. Aziraphale was created for smiles and crepes and sunlight. This utter consternation strikes as foreign on his countenance, and Crowley can’t help but feel guilty. _I am sorry, I am sorry_ , he thinks- a mantra. And then: _Whatever is said next will determine whether or not I’ll lose you_.

Aziraphale swallows. “Crowley,” he says, in the subdued voice of someone ransacking their mind for words. “Do you feel- _sorry_ \- do you _sense_ anything, ah, out of the ordinary?”

Relief surges through Crowley’s neural pathways. Aziraphale is talking about something else. With a bit of luck, he may be even overreacting, in typical Aziraphale fashion. “No, nothing’s out of the ordinary,” he says. “Feeling perfectly ordinary today, me. I believe the term you’d use _is tickety-boo_. What is it, angel? Don’t tell me it’s one of those ridiculous flashes of”-

“Crowley.” This time it’s more urgent. It shuts him right up. “It’s not flashes. Well, it is, in a way, but those, those flashes, they are more like, words.”

“Angel, for the last time, William’s ghost is not haunting you for selling that _Lear_ quarto, it’s all in your head, and frankly”-

“My dear, do let me finish! It’s serious. I wasn’t discussing literature here, although some of it can qualify as moderately, ah, poetic? Which is very nice, by the way, only I am not sure I was psychologically prepared for”-

“For what, Azzziraphale?” His lisp is back, as is the abject panic. Again: _The wrong words, and I might lose you._ And: _My dear, if you leave, what will I ever do with myself?_ And: _What?_

The thought feels painfully relevant, so Crowley repeats it out loud. “ _What?_ ”

“Sheen”, Aziraphale blurts out, breathless. For a blissful moment Crowley has no idea what this meant. “Very literary, very gentle. You can almost hear the light caress the word. Kind of a shock, really, that anyone would look at me- and they- much less-well, _considering._ ”

“Angel.” Crowley’s heart –due to premonition or, perhaps, subconscious realization- is hammering. “Syntax. Full sentences. _Meaning_.”

 _(Please don’t panic_ , he thinks. _Please don’t go_. And: _What?)_

“Melancholy,” Aziraphale says. “Not something I would personally associate with lustre. And yet it works, rather beautifully, might I add. What is it called? A metaphor or a simile? For all my literary knowledge, I’ve always confused the two.” His eyes are enormous, candlelight oscillating in their twin wetness, as deadly as Poe’s famous pendulum.

 _If only I could find a pit to throw myself in, as well_ , Crowley thinks, too shocked to feel anything, actual shock included. And, vehemently _: Why did God let a creature like you Fall?_

* * *

…How much can the wirings of a human brain endure before the inevitable short-circuit? 

To Crowley, this feels like the _coup de grace_. As if his head wasn’t already crowded enough, there are stolen thoughts in there now. One, in particular, resounds tirelessly: a promise; a knife.

_Why did God let a creature like you Fall?_

_Why did God let a creature like you Fall?_

_“Why did God let a creature like you Fall?”_

* * *

Aziraphale, contrary to what his pudgy physique might suggest, can run remarkably fast. There is a reason he was originally assigned to guard the Eastern Gate, after all, no matter how badly the whole apple business went down. Underneath the layers of tartan and worn tweed, his soft corporation remains that of a warrior.

Perhaps this is why he finds himself outside, panting and braced against the Bentley, mere seconds after the words, “ _Why did God let a creature like you Fall?_ ” leave Crowley’s lips. Normal, human words formed by the vibration of vocal folds and transmitted via fluctuations of pressure. There would be nothing off about them, had they not been originally thought by Aziraphale himself.

 _“How can someone so smart be so stupid?”_ Crowley told him once, not long ago. He was right, as he always is. _Of course it would go both ways_. _Wait, unfortunate expression._

He was so caught up in the whiplash he never even bothered to entertain the possibility of Crowley hearing flashes of _Aziraphale’s_ thoughts. Crowley, who was just thinking about Aziraphale’s lips, as if they haven’t been enemies, adversaries, allies, tentative friends, best friends, for six thousand years. Crowley, _attractive, lithe Crowley, Crowley the original tempter, Crowley who saunters with his hands tucked inside the pockets of impossibly tight jeans, Crowley with his head perennially aflame, with the serrated whiteness of his smile and those eyes and with a heart big enough to encircle the whole damned world._

Crowley, who stands very much behind him, and has, probably _, heard_ some of _that_ , too.

“Here’s Johnny.” Aziraphale doesn’t even need to turn around to hear the bashful smile, although the reference eludes his limited grasp on pop culture. Crowley’s voice hasn’t sounded so shaky since Pompeii. “You can’t drive, Aziraphale, remember? And even if you could, well, there was _no way in Heaven_ I was letting you anywhere near her. Near her driver’s seat, anyway.”

Aziraphale’s arms fall to his sides, hands slowly reaching to clasp one another behind his back. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, dear boy”, he says. “I needed some air, that’s all. As a matter of fact - _would you look at the time_ \- it’s late. And it’s been a long day. Long week, actually.”

The air behind Aziraphale moves, clothing rustles. Crowley is fidgeting. “Well, if you asked me, I probably would. Let you drive her I mean. Anything, really”-

“I think that, perhaps, you should leave.”

Somewhere over Aziraphale’s shoulder, a sharp intake of air. _Is this us now?_ And: _I was okay with what we had._ And: _I don’t want to want._ And: _Demons were supposed to be unable to feel like this._ And: _This ache is demonic all right._ And: _Is my affection not enough?_ And: _This is wrong. I am wrong._

“Perhaps you are right.”

It vaguely occurs to Aziraphale that they are the oldest living beings on the planet. _It shouldn’t feel so awkward._ They shouldn’t be acting like-

“Teenagers. I know.”

Crowley’s eyes glaze over him, half-hidden by those stupid sunglasses. This is the last thing Aziraphale sees before the car door closes, a little too purposefully. He watches Crowley drive away, and once the Bentley drifts out of sight, he goes back in the bookshop and promptly drinks the rest of the wine. Next he miracles up a _Chateauneuf-du-pape,_ because it reminds him of another, equally turbulent night, when they decided to become Godfathers (to the _Antichrist,_ no less). Well. When one gets to live forever, one tends to become nostalgic every now and then.

It’s quiet, not outside –it’s Soho, after all- but inside his head. _For the most_. He doesn’t understand what is happening, but if distance helps with their current predicament, that’s something.

In the privacy of his living quarters, Aziraphale blasphemes, and blasphemes, and blasphemes. How long has Crowley been thinking such things? Angels are supposed to be sexless. Not anatomically- not anymore in Aziraphale’s case at least; you can’t roam the earth for eons and expect to blend in without all the required _accessories_ \- but not really cut out for desire.

And yet, something has been brewing during all those years of friendship, something forbidden and all the more sweeter for it. Aziraphale has never harbored carnal thoughts for his counterpart. For the love of everything that’s holy, he _hopes_ he hasn’t. And then there’s the timing. Atrocious. He spent the entirety of the last two millennia overcompensating for Crowley’s recklessness, worrying for the two of them, and now _this_.

He sobers up and regrets the mental clarity immediately. It has been a long day. It’s been an even longer night. For the first time ever, Aziraphale experiences the need to actually lie back in his armchair and- what is it the humans do? - let go. Sleep.

* * *

Miles away, inside a Mayfair flat, a demon brings out his frustrations on his very terrified house plants.

When he goes to bed, he dreams.

* * *

Angels don’t dream. They have neither the predisposition, nor the imagination for that sort of thing. An unusual angel like Aziraphale may tell himself stories, but never in his sleep.

Tonight, however, he is being dreamt of. And thus Aziraphale, for better or for worse, ends up dreaming of The List.

* * *

**-** ** THE LIST ** **-**

**_A nice and accurate assortment of erotic ideations, as conjured up and arranged by Original Tempter and demon Anthony J. Crowley_ **

**_ -Starring- _ **

**_The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden_ **

  * …A shock of silver blond hair, unruly, unkempt, scattered in ringlets all over the pillow. The morning light seeping through the blinders does peculiar things with it, casting stripes of angelic white, forming the impression of a halo.



  * A cheek pressed against soft fabric, and right next to it, a mouth hanging slightly open, wet, and utterly kissable. The lips surrounding it are thin, barely existent, turning an orifice into a wound, an invitation, into a sprout hungry for the sun.



  * The curve of a nose, adventurous from the generous bridge to the shocking upturn near the tip.



  * An exposed Adam’s apple, and _oh_ , now _it makes sense why they would call it that_.



  * Junctures, the meeting pathways of mortal flesh: neck to shoulder, shoulder to upper arm, upper arm to lower arm, elbows and wrists and knuckles.



  * Patches of uncovered skin, supple and creamy, covered in goose-bumps and peppered with freckles..



  * The clavicles, the subtle canyon where ribs kiss, the prominence of the aforementioned ribs fluctuating in sync with the air as it fills and leaves the lungs; the concave geography somewhere below the sternum, and even lower, the steady rise and fall of a stomach covered beneath layers of belly fat.



  * The prominence of hips, the scandalous softness of love handles.



  * Tufts of blond hair, and tufts of blond hair, _and tufts of blond hair_.



  * The meeting of thighs, the tangle of legs caught between bed sheets.



  * Hands. Manicured and beautiful and fumbling across the bed, navigating the negative space where the press of bodies once prevailed.



  * Eyes flashing open under lashes so fair they could be snow. Crowley’s face reflected upon light blue, a slight dilation of the retinae, and wrinkles of joy, deepening, as the smile widens.



  * “Good morning.” And then, “my **_love_**.”



**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely experimental thing I am writing to cope with my own feelings and personal demons. I do not know if I wish to leave it open-ended, or if I want to continue it, and if I do continue it, what I would then have to say. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
